Beginning April 29, Chelsea Peretti and Michelle Collins will host a variety of well-known comedians, writers, and web entrepreneurs at their new show, “This’n’ More!”

Each show will kick off with music video (and internet phenomenon) near and dear to their hearts: “America, We Stand as One” –-until the two get sick of it and open with a different internet obsession!

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Advice for a "Friend"

But seriously. A friend of mine has a day job. And at this day job works a man who comes here from another country. Without giving too much away, this is a very overpopulated country, where women wear red dots on their forehead, and where you call when you need help with your computer. People from this country have probably driven you around New York, and tend to overall be a very nice and intelligent group of folks.

Now, this man who hails from this country is in America for a few months working in the Financial District with said friend. My friend tells me she has to go to the movies tonight with him, but feels a little awkward about it... AS HE IS MARRIED WITH A CHILD. Yes. Married, with a child, both of whom are still in India. It should also be mentioned that my friend has a boyfriend who is overseas as well, and let's just say he's woodenly shoed.

So no harm, you're thinking. The guy needs some friends! He's all alone in the U.S., homesick for India! Let your friend show him a time.

My friend just forwarded me an e-mail he sent her. Take a look, a good hard look at this, but not too long because you will surely kill yourself. Take a look, and then tell me if you think she should go out to the movies with this man.

We're All Stars Now, In the Pope Show

I caught wind of a few nicknames for the new Pope recently, Joseph Ratzinger, or as he prefers to be called "Pope Benedict XVI." Lord know I love his eggs, and lord knows I hate a traitor, but I'm still kind of up in the air bout this new Pope. Maybe it's cause I miss John Paul, and his grandfatherly and backward stances against birth control (or, as he used to call it, "the device that blocks God's will to make your life a misery.") He almost reminded me of my Grandparents - in the sense that he's old, not in the sense that he's a retarded, missing-link band of idiot, racist bastards.

Woah! Did not mean to get personal. So this Pope, while I haven't really warmed up to him yet, I certainly have fallen in love with his nicknames. The British press have really outdone themselves this time. Let's take a look at the top 3, starting with third place.

3. "Joey Ratz"

I like this one, as it makes him a man of his own people, the Italian people, famous for being mobsters and then giving one another intimidating nicknames, like "Tony Scars" or "Frankie the Anal Raper." "Joey Ratz" brings to mind a possible sermon: "Hey, I'm worshipping God ovah heeaaah", or "Get on ya fuckin' knees, ya fuck, it's praytime, and today's yuh lucky day, mothafucka."

The other thing it brings to mind is the character Rizzo Rat from the Muppets, a muppet whose visage alone makes my skullcap tingle with a childlike laughter.

Best part about this picture was discovering that there's a website called The Kermitage.

2. The "German Shephard"

Do I even need to explain why I love this? God, it's adorable. Seriously, bring this little fella in and let's get the conversion under way.

1. "Papa Razzi"

LOVE THIS ONE! Clever, descriptive, Italian-sounding (or just plain Italian)... How the NYPost could've let this one slip through their fingers is a travesty.

Pssst! Come here. Closer! Listen. It's John Paul. Heaven is awesome -- having the time of life. But this new Pope... whaddya think? I'm still on the fence. I mean -- "Benedict"? Who does he think he's kidding? And hellooo - cucumber slices over those eyes would cure those bags overnight! Every Pope knows that.

Speaking of Papa Razzi, Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise together?!? He could be her really hot, slightly-femme, short with a fabulous smile, leather-jacket clad Dad! I just had to let everyone know.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

I'm the Smartest Person on the Plane

So I've finally recompressed, following my 3-day decompression in my hometown of Miami (specifically Aventura), Florida. My previous trip home was an airline disaster, thanks to a little company that rhymes with U.S. Air, who insisted on taking my luggage on an unchaperoned journey down the East Coast. This time, I didn't risk it, booking a direct flight on (angel trumpets) Delta Song, which lulls its passengers into submission by providing 20 live channels of satellite tv at every seat. But more on that later.

The antics began the moment I arrived home. Mother, whose current retail job has turned her feet into two giant, corn pancakes, and father, who recently lost 20 pounds in 20 days by replacing solid foods with a special drink made from lemonade, cayenne pepper, maple syrup, and total fucking insanity. Seeing the two of them together, the intricacies of my madness began to make sense.

One more mozzerella ball and this pic would totes be NSF-dubs.

As you may have noticed, I got a new digicam a few weeks ago. One of the options is making 30 second short films. The genius of it is that you don't have to keep your finger on the capture button, hence you can trick people into thinking you're not taking their picture, while instead you're actually capturing a freaking epic of the encounter.

What follows are stills from what may just be the funniest thing I've ever seen: As luck would have it, I managed to capture dear mother in one of her ritualistic pill takings, where she takes a miniature sip of tea and then flings her head back like a crash test dummy to get the damn pill down her gullet. Try putting these pics together in your mind as one fluid motion, with the soundtrack of my goose-honking laughter.

When she realized she was being filmed, that's when all Sean-Penn-hell broke loose.

I woke up Saturday morning with a sharp, jabbing pain in my hip. Rather than investigate, I just shifted my weight around. Little did I know I had fallen asleep ON my glasses, small, delicate rimless (and, I have to add, pricey) specs which, when placed under my enormous carriage, break easily.

Thanks to Gonzalo at Lenscrafters who, while not repairing them totally, was able to make them look normal on my face, even though they're being held together by the will of God.

That night: Seder. Thanks to my interpretive reading of the Haggadah as a salty, old British professor, our small but jovial group of 10 family members and friends seemed to really grasp the true meaning of this sacred holiday.

I'm the Golem in the back row.

Sunday: Mother was ill, so following a Daddy/Daughter breakfast, I went outlet shopping, picking up a pair of hiLARious pink Puma boxing shoes, Schattenboxen, for 25 bones. (Literally, I took a risk: Do you accept bones? They were all "Uh, OBviously!" Good thing I got my foot amputated pre-purchase. It's full of bones.)

It's more fun when you pronounce "Schattenboxen" like Ralph Fiennes would in Schindler's List.

And why have a second Seder when you can just eat the leftovers as a family in front of the television?

By far my favorite item of Passover is the Passover cake from Epicure on Alton Road. The cake itself is pretty good, but it is the macaroon and jam topping that is the unleavened icing on the cake. Note how I scavenge this delicacy when no one is looking. Never did something that looked like day old throw up taste so, so good.

Monday was alotted to being outdoors and in the gorgeous FLA sun. Mother and I got all bedecked to go have lunch at the News Cafe, a fairly shitty restaurant on Ocean Drive that was trendy about 10 years ago, but remains to be the only busy restaurant in South Beach (esp. for a Monday afternoon).

It's kind of hard to have any color in your face when somebody wears electric rasberry lipstick.

YOY Check out this little puppy, being man-handled by a large, oaffish man (SEE: hands) who regarded my incessant vocal puppy meltdown as one of the signs of the apocalypse. It's amazing he agreed to the picture. AND LOOK! HE HAS YITTOW PINK NAY-OWS!!

Also, did you know that Antonio Banderas costs only $22.39 in Miami?

JK! His essence does. Now you too can smell like the worlds sweetest ballsack with Diavolo, which translates loosely into "Gaunt". Check out that ever-so-cut jawline. Looks like someone served their second chin divorce papers, with weekend visitation rights! I swear to God, that literally does not mean anything.

On the plane ride home, I took part in another feature that Delta Song has to offer: In-flight Trivia, an on-screen game where you test your smarts against everyone else on the plane. Since I was flying alone, I was too ashamed to act so childish on the way down, but on the way back, thanks to two fellas the row ahead who were in the heat of competition, I surrendered. The game asks you questions (sometimes extremely random - who knew the Wonderbra was invented in the early 60's?), and the faster you answer the more points you get. Then, it ranks everyone who's playing by score, letting you know their seat assignment as well.

Well. Larry in 24E was by far my number one competition. This cocksucker was like the Ken Jennings of Flight 1981, tapping the screen with such precision it seemed impossible to beat the guy. In fact, he was ranked as the 6th highest scorer who's EVER flown on the plane.

But finally, people, FINALLY my turn came to ask Larry in 24E "Who's My Bitch". Put me out, girl! I was on fire. Tip-tappin my way to the top scorer in Round #14, coming in at 7450 points out of roughly 10,000.

But that's when I saw it, friends. I WAS THE TOP SCORER TO EVER FLY ON FLIGHT 1981 DELTA SONG. In other words, I WAS THE SMARTEST PERSON TO EVER FLY IN THE PLANE! Needless to say, I never grew the nerve to pass seat 24E and take a good look at this "Larry" character, but in my own mind, he wasn't even a man. He was a giant brain soaking in a jar of formaldahyde, with a number of fancy looking wires and lights coming out of it. Body or not, this brain-in-jar got his fucking ass kicked.

Finally, I bring you pictures of a cat owned by a genius *LOUD COUGHING*. He took a penchant to my large red luggage, going so far as to actually get inside it to take a nap. Ironic, as he hates me.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Weekend Contest: Who's Cuter?

Blogging tomorrow has been suspended, as I'm in My Ami. Be back on Tuesday!! With pics!!

A little game to play this weekend kiddies: WHO'S CUTER?

A BABY GORILLA, A BABY CHIMP, OR DAKOTA FANNING?

Winner receives the petrified dung of Haley Joel Osment. But don't forget: This game is about fun! So, while competitiveness is appreciated, leave your mudslinging to the apes, and just remember to TAKE IT EASY! Breathe deeply, fill in the scantron, and relax. That's what these quizzes are about.

Safety at Last

So I come home last night, heat up a Swedish Meatballs Lean Cuisine (as I do), and crack open my latest issue of Time Out New York, which is all about apartment hunting, and what kind of apartments you can afford on the salary you make. The whole article is kinda bullshitty, as it assumes you would live in a 3 bedroom apartment without any roommates chipping in. So while it tells people who make $60,000 that they can live in a swanky studio on the swanky Upper West Side (West Sii-IIIDE!), someone making $100,000 can live in much less nice and less centrally located 3 bedroom apartment in Astoria, Queens - allow me to borrow from my middle school dayz to retort with a "Nuh-Duh".

Anyway, so I'm flipping through Time Out, looking at all the cultural offerings in the city that I rarely/never take advantage of, when I see the most KICK ASS THING is happening this weekeend, Passover weekend, when I, Jew to form, will be in Miami seder-ing it up with the gang (Ma, Pa, Elijah T. Prophet, Manny Schevitz, jet-setera).

For those very dedicated readers who've been reading since the start, you may remember my post dedicated to what I believe is one of the funniest movies ever made, Safety Last. The movie, which is not out on DVD and rarely shown on television, but which you will recognize from the famous image of the man hanging off of the clock, will be shown on the big screen this weekend at the Forum. I beg you, New Yorkers, SEE THIS MOVIE.

There seems to be a sort of Harold Lloyd Rennaissance going on. This month, Turner Classic Movies has a cutesy little theme of "April Fools", showing classic comedies every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night. TCM is one of the best stations out there, showing commercial free films with really interesting introductions by a pleasant Chris Matthews lookalike. And don't let the Jew thing fool you: I prefer my films uncut, thank you very much. AMC (or "American Movie Classics", as they insist on being called) doesn't hold a candle to TCM: For fuck's sake, last night they were showing G.I. Jane, which ran 3:30 hours thanks in large part to Swiffer and their addictive ad campaign. It's like, every time I see that commercial, there's a little Swiffer Duster going in my ear, wiping out some long forgotten childhood memory and overwriting it with "Swiff it! Swiff it good!" And their brain-swiffing seems to be working, as I own every Swiffer variation: dry Swiffer mop, wet Swiffer (love!), the Swiffer Wet Jet (sounds dirty, but cleans well), and my latest aquisition, the Swiffer/Dirt Devil Vac, which I got for a steal thanks to some pesky disclaimer about 5 people in Indiana lighting themselves on fire because of some motor problem blah blah blah. Unfortch, the vacuum has about as much suction power as a desiccated, 1986-era Garfield window plush, and rather than sucking up the price tags and pounds of hair that make their way to my floor, it somehow manages to blow it into another corner of my room. Long story long, don't invest. Just set yourself on fire the old fashioned way, working in an oil-refinery.

Where was I? Ah yes, Harold Lloyd! A few weeks ago TCM had a Harold Lloyd marathon, and I managed to tape a few, although still haven't found anyone who was interested in watching them with me (it does seem to add to the enjoyment -- there's something a little depressing about watching silent films in your pajamas and eating hummus and crackers by yourself.)

So, those are my instructions this weekend. I'll be returning on Monday night, and hope to catch some of his lesser-known works before the festival ends on May 17.

But what about those of you living outside of a 500-mile radius from the city? What are you supposed to do this weekend? My suggestion for you, if you have HBO-on-Demand, is to demand to see "Funny Old Guys", a 40-minute documentary about a group of old men in their 80's, men who used to write for such shows as The Dick Van Dyke Show, All in the Family, and The Jeffersons, who meet every Tuesday for bagels and brunch at their local tennis club in California.

These men are completely adorable and wonderful to listen to. They talk about the industry, their lives, being blacklisted and its effects on their career... I walked away from this with 3 hiLARious new jokes (doubly funny when hearing them tell it), and having shed a few tears, as the story takes a touching and sad turn toward the end. 40 minutes well spent, still loving all of my on Demand features.

(Here's an example, picture a really cute old man telling this: This guy gets an operation, and afterwards the doctor comes in, and he says "I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is, we were able to save your testicles. The bad news is, they're under your pillow.")

So I received my Darth Tater this morning... worth every penny. I've placed it on my very clean and uncluttered desk, and am playing a little experiment called "How Long Until Someone Either Makes a Snide Comment About Darth Tater or Asks Me To Remove It From My Desk?" Game. May the brute force be with you.

The twain shath ne'er mixeth.

And just when I think I'm cursed, I realize I'm blessed. How so? Take a look at this pretty interesting site: THE WORST JOBS IN HISTORY. If the blood/shit shmears throughout give you any idea, breathe in that stale office air, strap on that middle-class glow, and thank God, whether he exists or not.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

The Mr. T Rubber Duckie

'I pity the fool' who doesn’t buy my duck! It's the one and only Mr. T celebriduck. His hair is done in a Mohawk with big sideburns running into his classic beard. His eyes and face are grimacing as though he is mad, and his duckbill is open slightly as if to yell. Around his duck body he wears blue overalls, and a black undershirt. Around his neck is his famous gold jewelry. Both his hands and wrists are covered in golden rings and bracelets.

If I Were British, This Would Be Twice as Funny

Here's an article that, while already one of the funniest things I've ever seen, knowing the 8,000 nickmanes Brits have for sausage would no doubt have heightened the hysterics. Seriously, sausage must be to you people what snow is to the Eskimos. Yet another notch in the "Pro" column re: why I need to move to London.

Fine, so a guy got his nose broken when a frozen sausage flew into his car and hit him in the face. But leave it to one of England's most esteemed rags, the Sun, to have reporter "Frank Furter" get to the bottom of the situation. The British police HAD to be shitting their pants laughing during the "line-up." But c'mon: Mike Fryson? Terrible.

Also, check out the "sausage victim", John Hatfield.... Guuuurrrrrl, you KNOW I'd be his sausage victim any day of the week!!

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

In the Wee Small Hours of the Mourning

First off, the WYSIWYG Talent Show was a blast yesterday. Make sure to check out the blogs of all the other readers, Elizabeth, Daniel, Jon, Brian and Andy . Thanks to Chris, and also to Rachel who brought me a copy of her book Naughty Spanking Stories A to Z, which I foolishly forgot to take out of my bag before coming into work today. Note that when I say "bag", I'm referring to the gigantic lucite coffin with thick cowhide strap I lug around everywhere, and you can begin to understand my predicament.

Following a less successful stint at the Dallas BBQ (where they refused to seat me and my five friends on their "terraza", because they thought we'd be too "messy." Meanwhile, there's an infant sitting in a basin full of barbecue sauce playing darts using ribs and a pig's face as a target, havin' a time of it.) Following an hour of nauseated debauchery (seated inside) and filled to the brim with syrupy pina colada, I ambled west with two friends, where we passed a number of druggies passed out on the sidewalks of the city. It's amazing: Once the temperature breaks 70 degrees, every single toothless, open-shirted fuck-up in New York decides to hit the streets. Every winter I seem to forget about the city's (whispered) "homeless problem", sure enough, come April, and this guy cops a feel on the subway.

The great thing about downing 64 oz. of rum is that ya sleep like a baby. A tiny, barely breathing, dim-witted baby. The fetal alcohol syndrome doesn't hit until mornin time. (Don't you dare ask me to post a picture of that, you sick bastard.)

Last night was positively balmy here in the city. So at around 5 am, the temp under my covers passing 4000 degrees, I had no choice but to get up, strip, open my windows all the way up, and knot my curtains to allow a little "luft" into the room, as the new Pope Benedict XVI would say.

Here's the best part: With my window all the way up, I could hear everything that was happening in the alley behind my building! And it's a shame that cats make so much noise when they get raped, because there's an entire market of felines out there who would be totally jazzed to get their paws on one of them there rape whistles. These cats were given it up without consent all night long. Oh, and mark your calendars, the birds are back from the South, and they've all decided to kibbitz at 6 am on the tree right outside my window! At around 6:30, that's when the neighbors who are in long but ultimately unsatisfying relationships wake up and have morning sex. That's also when the garbage truck rumbles its way down the next block up. And at 7, that's when my alarm goes off, playing "High-falootin' Owl" off of my "Dom Delouise Sings!" CD. [via Transbuddha]

So let's review: cats getting raped, birds geshrei-ing, people fucking (unless there's an autistic girl living nearby, it was kind of hard to tell), clanging garbage truck, and a singing D-list celebrity chef.

So, to answer the question that no one cared enough to ask, that's why I'm tired and yawning today.

No word if Segal Avenue is named after some fake Native American maniac-face murderer*.

*Subject to speculation.

- In this extremely concise post, the man who played the Oscar Mayer Wiener mascot has passed away at the ripe old age of 82 . Family members say he will finally live out his dream of wishing "he was an Oscar Mayer Wiener."

MSN Presents Special Columnist: Michael Jackson

In one of the creepiest things I've ever read, MSN posts an article that tells parents what their teenage son is really thinking, and here's a breaking snoozeflash: Your teenage son is thinking a lot about sex. Really a lot. So much so that it accounts for 4 out of only 10 things your kid thinks about. And check out the title of the article that will have you taking a burning hot shower and scrubbing until your skin bleeds:

V.P.L. A.S.S.A.P.

Do you ever leave the house in the morning feeling all cute and springy, only to discovery when checking out your ass in the reflection of the window looking into the company conference room that you have a horrendous case of V.P.L., or visible panty line?

All Kidding Aside: JUST A REMINDER... In a few weeks, cell phone numbers are being released to telemarketing companies and you will start to receive sales calls. Check out www.donotcall.gov to remove your number from the list.

Another Dick in the Wholphin

This morning, I discovered that the impossible was possible. A whale can not only successfully mate with a dolphin, but can even have children with them, "cleverly" deemed Wholphins.

And the good news: Mother Wholphin, named Kekaimalu, which is Hawaiian for "Star Jones", has given birth to a not-so-little Wholphin calf! One of the world's leading and only wholphin experts, Dr. Renato Lenzi, explains the significance of the calf: "As the only living product of a wholphin, we are given a special and unique scientific and educational opportunity." I then added, "For example, we can finally study the interior workings of a ruptured dolphin vaginal canal." Seriously, a WHALE and a DOLPHIN! Can you just picture these two striking up a convo at the local underwater dive bar?

Whale: Hi, my name's Bruce, and you are --Dolphin: Kekaimalu. I haven't seen you around here --Whale: Kekaimalu! That was my mother's name.Dolphin: Really? That's strange.Whale: Isn't it?(1 minute pause)(at the same time)Dolphin: I'm gonna get a -- Whale: Do you want --Dolphin: Oh, I.. You first Whale: Sorry --(3 hours later, smashed)Whale: And that's when I told her: You're suffocating me. I want out. That was about... I don't know... 2 months ago... (quiet)... I miss her awful.Dolphin: That's terrible.Whale: (sobbing) I miss the way she feels.... Her smell. Her eyes. (sobbing)Dolphin: Is there anything I can do?